But now, no face divine contentment wears
by writergal85
Summary: Sister Bernadette's thoughts after Sister Monica Joan calls her out with that Eloisa to Abelard quote (sly old thing) I've got a million other things I should be doing instead of writing fanfiction, but I couldn't resist. Probably a one-shot. Maybe a two-shot if I get on a roll.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Of course, none of this belongs to me, but to Jennifer Worth, Heidi Thompson and Alexander Pope.**

"But now no face divine contentment wears. 'Tis all blank sadness and continual tears."

She knew the reference instantly. The midwives sometimes made a game of trying to guess the obscure origins of Sister Monica Joan's quotations and Sister Bernadette, educated at a young age by her father in the classics, and drilled in the Bible during her religious training, was quite good. Usually, the older nun's well-timed barbs made her giggle, particularly when Sister Evangelina was their target.

Today, she felt the words like a slap, a physical blow that made her shrink and quiver, pushing her out of the room and toward the chapel once more. She only prayed no one else recognized the source of the quotation.

_Eloisa to Abelard_, by Alexander Pope. A poem about a nun who falls in love with a man she can't have.

As she rearranged the altar flowers and blinked back tears, she wondered if Sister Monica Joan knew what she herself had only lately come to recognize: that what she felt for Dr. Turner extended beyond professional respect, beyond even friendship. She dared not call it love, not yet. The desire for his company might only be a symptom of the increasing claustrophobia she'd begun feel at Nonnatus, much like the disappointed resignation she experienced when called away from silly conversations with the nurses about dating and fashion to attend compline. Besides, she wasn't certain Dr. Turner returned her feelings, and what would be the point of subjecting herself to the pain of rejection when she couldn't have him?

There had been a moment earlier in the week at the clinic. They had been alone - a rarity - discussing repairs and updates to the aging facility. Though she'd insisted it was a waste of his time, he'd gently pushed her until she'd admitted that a few new screens and a water heater above the sink would help.

"And we struggle with these spirit lamps. They're so old-fashioned and so fragile," she said.

He moved closer and picked one up. "They must break so easily."

"Yes, and the wicks get damp and they won't burn." As he examined one of the lamps, she allowed herself to look at him, always careful of what she revealed. Her face, she knew, was too clear and honest; even as a child, she'd been a terrible liar. Too often, she showed her feelings before she even realized she felt them - anger, hurt, affection.

This time, she wasn't careful enough. He met her gaze, held it and his face softened with - what? Surprise? Tenderness? Longing?

She didn't have time to figure out what it meant before Timothy came running in. She suddenly became aware of how close they were standing. They both stepped back, the moment broken, and began talking about the three-legged race.

A moment over spirit lamps? It was utterly ridiculous, certainly not the stuff of her girlish fantasies (not that she had those anymore). She would have laughed if she didn't feel so guilty about it.

She heard footsteps and, out of the corner of her eye, saw Sister Julienne enter the chapel.

"Sister Bernadette, I owe you an apology. You asked to speak to me and I was distracted, and now Sister Monica Joan has spoken out of turn."

Had she known the reference? Did she suspect?

She had tried to speak to the sister before about her doubts, but that was when they still seemed manageable, when her temptations were small. Things like skipping services; enjoying the vanity of new glasses; treasuring the drawing that Timothy had given her the way a mother would. Each transgression by itself might be easily conquered, but piled on top of each other and compounded by the growing affection she felt for Dr. Turner and his son, they became a mountain of doubt too large to shift. And yet shift it she must. On her own.

"I didn't want anyone to notice. I didn't want to impose myself, to make any sort of demand on the community."

But Sister Julienne would not be deterred so easily. "It isn't an imposition to ask for help," she said, leading her to a chair. "And you did ask for help and I have come to offer what I can."

They sat and Sister Julienne waited, ever patient, while Sister Bernadette tried to gather her thoughts and explain her problem calmly and rationally.

But she couldn't. Her thoughts and memories came in fragments, like a shattered spirit lamp. Watching Trixie, Jenny and Cynthia leave for a dance, laughing and slightly tipsy. Taking off her wimple and brushing her hair in the mirror, reminding herself that underneath the habit she was still a woman. An illicit shared cigarette after the Carter twins' birth, and Dr. Turner's amused, slightly shocked smile. She enjoyed that smile a little too much.

She could confess to each moment, one by one, and she still wouldn't be sure what they added up to. The confusion and the guilt weighed so heavy, hurt so much.

"The truth is I hardly know what ails me," she said, her voice cracking with tears. She swallowed hard. "I almost wish I was physically ill. I want to be able to say, 'This is where it hurts,' because if I could list my symptoms, you could offer me a cure." She took a ragged breath and looked down at her hands. "But you can't, because I can't."

"But we have made a start, Sister Bernadette," she heard Sister Julienne say as she grasped her hands. "We're having a conversation."

Sister Bernadette nodded, grateful for the older sister's calm strength. It was a balm, much like a mother's love. "I think this is all that I can manage for today." She felt sheepish admitting it. Why couldn't she be brave enough to confess everything? To waste Sister Julienne's time like this, sniveling over feelings she couldn't name, was useless and cowardly.

She felt the older sister squeeze her hands again. "That doesn't matter," Sister Julienne said, as if she had all the time in the world to sit and talk and comfort Sister Bernadette while she cried. Such kindness did her in.

_I don't deserve this,_ she thought, as she began to sob.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews so far. I guess I'll just keep writing until I run out of plot ideas. :) I'm unsure about the Bible quote in this passage, as my Bible is Catholic, not Anglican (I think both use the St. James version), but I couldn't resist.**

There was still an hour before she had to rise for morning prayers, but Sister Bernadette had already been awake for quite some time. She'd had bouts of insomnia before; that sort of thing came with a midwife's irregular hours. The key was not to rest during the day, even if you had the rare opportunity for a lie-in, but to keep going until the sun went down.

But this was different. She was exhausted, not only from work, but from the dreams. Oh, the dreams. Dreams she should not be having. The only way to avoid them was to stay awake, disciplining her mind by reading her Bible - Psalms, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, the Song of Solomon. That last one had been a mistake that kept her awake ages.

"Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth! For your love is better than wine."

She pulled her hand out from underneath the quilt, traced the healing scar on her palm and allowed herself the indulgence of one memory.

It had been after the three-legged race with Timothy. She stood at the sink in the clinic, running cold water over her injured hand and trying to catch her breath. She'd been feeling breathless more and more recently; she put it down to her anxieties.

"Would you like me to take a look at that?"

Dr. Turner stood in the doorway. She started at his voice and pulled away from the running tap. She hadn't even heard the doorway curtain move.

Looking back now, she didn't know why she'd said yes. It was only a graze; the scrap she'd bandaged on Timothy's elbow weeks earlier was more serious. She could clean and bandage it herself and be back to her duties in no time.

But there was something in his face, stubborn yet caring, that made her submit. She knew he wouldn't leave and she had no excuse to run this time. She awkwardly held out her wet, bleeding hand for his inspection.

He stepped closer and took her hand gently in both his own, as if he were afraid he might injure her further.

She couldn't remember if they'd ever touched like this before. Certainly, they worked in close quarters sometimes during births, sat shoulder to shoulder at the foot of beds bringing new lives into the world and passed instruments back and forth during clinics. She might have shaken his hand when they first met, years ago, but that was when he was married and she was still a nun sure of her faith.

This is a test, she thought, as he ran his fingers lightly over her wrist, then her palm, examining the wound with a furrowed brow. If we can behave as patient and doctor here, if he touches me and I can feel nothing, then everything will be all right. Everything will return to normal. She watched the path of his fingers, her breath becoming quick and shallow again.

He bent his head, his eyes fluttering shut, and pressed a kiss to her fingertips.

For a heartbeat, she didn't move, too shocked by the feel of his lips on her skin. She hadn't known such a small gesture could make her feel so warm. The heat washed up her arm and made her blush.

And yet there had been nothing lascivious about his action. He kissed her as she'd seen young mothers kiss their newborns, with tender reverence and - and _love_.

The sunny joy of realizing that he returned her affections was quickly eclipsed by a black cloud of guilt. This was wrong. She turned away and stared at her fingers, half-expecting to find them marked by his kiss. But there was only the graze from the pavement.

"I'm sorry," she heard him say huskily. "That was unforgivable."

No, it was wonderful, she wanted to tell him. For a brief second, everything was wonderful and clear and she knew exactly what she wanted. "Who is it who decides what is forgivable and unforgivable?"

"I think you know that better than I do," he said.

She could hear the hurt in his voice and everything in her cried out to turn back and comfort him. But she didn't have that right, just he had no right to kiss her. She belonged to a higher power that could not be turned away from. Then she felt worse for even considering turning away from God and her faith. That was not who she was. She could only offer the doctor, this man she loved without knowing exactly why, small words of reassurance.

"At this moment, I only know I'm not turning my back on you because of you. I'm doing it because of Him." She grasped the wooden cross at her neck, feeling the corners cut into her damp palm. Reality, harsh and firm.

He sighed. "And if I didn't accept that I wouldn't deserve to live." She heard the curtain part and he was gone. She turned back a second too late.

It had been the most romantic, the most erotic moment of her life.

In her dreams, she didn't turn away. In her dreams, she let him kiss her, then turned her hand to rest it on his cheek and stepped closer. That was as far as she ever got before waking herself up.

They hadn't spoken in weeks - well, really spoken, beyond instructions at ante-natal clinics. Soon the wound on her hand would be completely gone. It would be as if it had never happened.

Then what would they be? They'd been friends and confidants before, but she wasn't sure that possible now, not when he'd laid his heart before her and she'd given it back in pieces.

They must be strangers to one another, she thought as she rose from bed to dress. No - worse. With strangers, there was always possibility of friendship, if you opened yourself to it.

They would have to be professional, for themselves and for the patients. Sister Bernadette and Dr. Turner. Colleagues, nurse and doctor. That was the only solution.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Oh look it's a 3rd chapter! A bit melodramatic, but I couldn't resist. Others have used Lizzie as the name of Patrick's wife, so I figured I'd use it too - just seemed to fit. Hope you don't mind.**

Dr. Patrick Turner sat in his car, watching the back and forth scrape of the wipers, steady, like a heartbeat.

_Whish, whish…wish, _they seemed to whisper. _Wish._

There was only one person he wished for, but she was miles away. And even if he could be at Sister Bernadette's bedside at the sanatorium, they would still be separated, by her vows to God and by a disease that could kill so cruelly.

_The triple treatment can be miraculous_, he'd told her. He'd prayed for a miracle, something he hadn't done since Lizzie had died. He wished he could be sure his prayers made a difference.

_"Is there anything else I can get you, Doctor?" she asked quietly_

_He smiled at her kind offer. "Some of your faith perhaps. It's at times like this I wish I had one."_

_Her face fell. "It's at times like this I wish it made a difference."_

Patrick hoped she still had some faith, to keep her strong and comfort her when he couldn't. He'd urged her in his brief letters not to give up - to fight - but had received no reply. He would have gone spare if weren't for Nurse Franklin mentioning at clinic the other day that she was going to visit Sister Bernadette and that her letters had been regular.

So she was writing. Just not to him.

He was nothing but professional, nothing but careful, when he wrote to her. He had thought briefly of visiting, under the guise of the checking on her health - as her GP it was perfectly reasonable he should be interested - but quickly abandoned that plan. She was ill and under stress; to force a visit on her before she was ready to see him would be wrong. He would not make the same mistake he'd made the day of the baby show.

He'd just come back from tending to Mrs. Harding, a mother of eight, with another on the way. She'd asked him for sterilization earlier, but he hadn't been able to offer it to her. No medical reason. It made him feel so futile, so angry. The woman had nearly killed herself over an unwanted pregnancy, and she wouldn't be the last, unless the laws changed. He'd driven slowly back to the parish hall, wrung out and helpless.

Then he'd got out of the car and seen Timothy and Sister Bernadette, joined at the hip, running in the three-legged race. The heaviness in his chest lifted; he felt the way he remembered feeling when Lizzie was alive, when he'd come home and find his wife and son engaged in some silly game. This was his family.

He ran through crowds, cheering, "Come on, Sister! Come on, Timothy!" and met up with them just as Timothy tripped and fell at the finish line, taking Sister Bernadette down with him. He saw her hands hit the pavement hard, saw her glasses go flying and worried briefly that she'd been hurt. But when he knelt to help, he found her just as breathless and excited as his son.

"We won!" she exclaimed, a wide grin lighting up her features. Her face looked different without glasses, younger, more open.

Timothy, once untied, ran off to collect his prize. Patrick found her glasses and handed them to her. He'd wanted to thank her, not just for looking after his son, but for giving him that moment of happiness just when he needed it. Instead, he stuttered, "You've hurt your hand."

She shrugged off his concern with a light comment - "no need to amputate" and scuttled away, leaving him alone again.

He looked around for something to do or someone to talk to. Timothy was horsing around with the other Cub scouts; he didn't need him now.

He really should thank Sister Bernadette, for her kindness to Timothy, if nothing else. She'd probably be in the clinic, looking for a bandage.

But once he found her, rinsing her hand in the clinic sink, the thanks died on his lips again. Why couldn't he just say what he felt? Ever since that afternoon when they'd been discussing updates to the clinic and she'd looked up at him, her blue eyes so clear and kind, he'd found himself tongue-tied in her presence. She was his colleague and a nun, for Christ sake. Why was he acting like a giddy school boy?

The physician in him took over. "Would you like me to take a look at that?"

He'd startled her; she jumped back from the sink, but after a moment, held out her hand for his inspection. "Yes."

He took her hand in both his own, careful of the wound. It was only a graze; she probably didn't even need a bandage. Her palms were chapped from work and the weather, but the skin on her wrist was smooth and pale, protected by the sleeves of her habit. He traced the network of blue veins there, then trailed his trembling fingertips up her palm, mesmerized.

Her hands told the story of someone who was both sheltered and experienced; someone who had spent her life caring for others, but deserved to be treasured herself. Someone who loved deeply and should be loved in return.

Without another thought, he bent his head and kissed her open palm.

Before he had time to register what he'd done, what such a naked display of affection meant, she pulled away and turned her back. He cupped his empty hands and felt his heart sink to his feet. He'd frightened her, when all he meant to do was love her.

He apologized and tried to reassure her as best he could, then left.

Patrick might have felt love during the moment when he kissed her palm, but he didn't realize how deep the feeling ran until weeks later, after he saw the X-rays. Lesions, more than one, in both lungs. TB. He didn't think he'd ever forget the fear in her eyes when he'd broke the news or the sudden cold feeling in his chest when he confirmed the diagnosis.

He did the small things he could for her, taking her to the hospital for scans and then later, to the sanatorium. But there was too much he couldn't do. Couldn't take care of her. Couldn't cure her TB. Couldn't say "I love you."

It's not enough, he thought. It will never be enough.

"Dad, are you sad?" Timothy's head popped up over the seat; Patrick had forgotten his son was in the car.

"How can I be sad when I've got you?" he replied, making an effort to smile and shove his darker thoughts to the back of his mind.

Timothy leaned over the seat back. "Granny Parker said that after mum died you used to just sit in the car, like a sheepdog without his sheep."

He didn't remember that. He remembered crying at the funeral and later, in their bedroom, and once in his office. But then he'd had work to do and a son to care for and there was no more time for crying. He had been late for more than a few appointments, with no recollection of why; he supposed he spent longer in the car than he realized.

"Did she?" He sighed. Even Timothy knew. "How about some fried bread?" he asked as a distraction. He didn't know if it worked, but Timothy agreed.

He's a very perceptive boy, Lizzie had said, when they both knew the end was near. "And he'll need you Patrick, to let him know everything is going to be all right."

"But it's not all right," he'd said. "You won't be here - how can that be right?"

She'd squeezed his hand with surprising force for someone so weakened by illness. "Maybe not at first, but it will be. One day, everything will be all right again."

Timothy was all right, he thought, as they finished their tea. Children were incredibly resilient. Patrick, however, was not. There was something he had to do, something he had to say, before he lost the chance to say it ever again.

So after his son was in bed, he sat at his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper and an envelope. He knew the address so well he could have written it in his sleep. He wrote quickly, without stopping, without thinking, sealed the envelope and ran down to drop it in the post box before he lost his nerve. There, it was done. It was said - well, not everything was said - but what was necessary was there. He trudged back to the flat, suddenly exhausted and crawled into bed.

_You said everything would be all right, Lizzie. You promised_, he thought as he drifted off. _Help me me make this right._


End file.
